


I Was Stabbed In The Knee

by markerpenn12253



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Alt Power, Batman!Taylor, DrSleep!Taylor, F/F, GhostRider!Taylor, No power, OR IS IT, Other, Psychic!Taylor, Shining!Taylor, Shining!Taylor?, Shiny!Taylor, ask permission!, case53!Taylor, does Sophia's mother have a canon name?, happy holidays? am i allowed to say that?, maybe lots of ships, maybe no ships, minion!Taylor, no not that kind of minion, one-shot idea, pick any, please and thank you and all that jazz, screw it she's psychic now, terminator!Taylor, these will grow the more i write
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-01-16 01:50:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21263138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/markerpenn12253/pseuds/markerpenn12253
Summary: It's easy enough to explain that there are a lot of ideas running through anybody's head. I have one such problem. So, here will be a series of one-shots that I hope will be enough for any first chapter. Mostly about Worm. Good luck.





	1. The Intruder

The first word that came to Lisa's head was "legs." Followed by "fuck," "ow," and "why." All in that order.

Really, Lisa knew she probably deserved it. She did just try to assault someone with a frying pan, after all. Then again, that someone had just broken into her apartment in the dead of night. She mentally gave herself points for attempted self-defense. Please, ignore the "attempted" while she took a moment to feel for her (most likely) broken nose. A quick prod revealed that ("Fuck!") it hurt like hell, and no, it was not broken. _Damn,_ she thought._ That might've gotten me out of work tomorrow._

Her flashed out to feel around her kitchen, and when she came across the kitchen island, Lisa pulled herself up from her curled position on the floor. Squeezing her bleeding nose shut, Lisa breathed through her mouth when she spotted the source of her agony. 

The girl stood very clearly a whole head higher than her. Her legs were long and exposed, her flesh pale. Lisa found herself wanting to touch, and moved forward a tiny bit. To any normal person, it would've been inconceivable, but the girl flinched hard at the centimeter Lisa's foot moved. 

The girl's hair was long and dark, succeeding in covering her face except for her eyes. Her eyes were so strange, so colorful. They glowed a myriad of colors, flashing between blue and green and gold and grey. They never seemed to settle, and Lisa really found herself wanting more when the girl tore her eyes away. _No,_ she pleaded in her head. _Let me see those gems that make my own look like mere stones._

...okay, sue her. She wasn't the best at metaphors. 

The girl flinched again when Lisa moved her hand off the counter, realizing that because of the slight sway in her feet that she may have a concussion. _Or something._ The rainbow eyed girl flicked to the frying pan that was still in her hands, then to the small pool of crimson that was covering Lisa's face. She spent a couple seconds doing that. 

Eyes on pan, eyes on Lisa. 

Eyes on pan, eyes on Lisa. 

Eyes on pan, eyes on- she dropped the pan in a loud clutter. "I-I'm sorry. I swear, I really didn't mean- I mean- oh god I'm sorry..." Lisa couldn't believe it. Did this girl, this long legged, rainbow eyed, long haired girl, just stutter in her presence? She was apologizing like mad, only silencing when she realized that Lisa had yet to say a word. _Call me what you will,_ she thought, _but damn. Hot damn. _

"It's fine," Lisa spoke, nasally. "Usually I handle the punishments in the bedroom, but I've never done it in a kitchen before."

Lisa thought about how weird writers were when they talked about blushing. Then she realized that it finally made sense when the girl across from her _flushed_ with red. Her eyes, beautiful and multi-colored, whipped and flitted nervously, like she wasn't sure what to look at. Her hands bunch up in her lap, her longs fingers intersecting and tapping and wrapping around their twins. She stuttered. "I-I'm sorry, I'm really not usually like that..."

"Like what? Making sure your girl knows what to do?" _Your girl? You're losing your touch, Wilbourne._ The girl's eyes widened, her eyes sparking a purple pink before stammering out a response. "No! No, I swear that was just-"

"An accident, sweetie, I know." Lisa finished for her. She uncovered her tender nose carefully revealing it to the girl. "Look, see? Stopped bleeding. Besides, who knows? Maybe I like getting hit with a frying pan every once in a while." The girl attempted to stammer out another apology when Lisa raised her bloody hand. "Stop apologizing."

"Sorry." She whispered. _Well, nothing said that change came quickly._ Lisa took a paper towel and rubbed at her hand and nose when the idea came to her. "Hey," she called. The girl's eyes came up, flashing pink before swelling into some other color that Lisa found herself too tired to describe. "Um... I can get you a shower. Maybe some new clothes?" The girl blinked. Lisa shifted in place, feeling as though under a microscope on the girl's kaleidoscope glare. Before the girl could open her mouth to apologize and refuse, again, Lisa grabbed her hand and led her to her bathroom. Lisa tried very hard not to think about what that meant. 

"Here's the shower," she said, flicking the lights on. Lisa blinked, and let her eyes adapt before turning around to face her newest guest. "The water takes a bit to warm up, but it'll do..." Lisa trailed off.

She very suddenly felt her cheeks warm as she realized that the girl had on no clothes.

The restroom was obviously brighter than the darkness of the kitchen. Lisa got an eyeful of long legs and supple thighs that look as though they could crush cantaloupe. They were the supporting structure for a body that Lisa could've seen on an Olympic athlete. Her stomach was a six-pack through and through, and her arms were toned with muscle that twitched with latent energy. Lisa felt herself wanting those arms to wrap around her, hold her, choke her, touch her... The girl's breasts were lacking, and Lisa both cursed and thanked whomever above. Her skin! It was clear of any natural blemish, and Lisa found herself overlooking the obvious marring of knife strikes and bullet holes. She desperately wanted to kiss that sweet flesh until the scars were no more. 

The hair finally fell out of the girl's face, and Lisa just about had it with anything relating to beauty. This girl was beautiful, with luscious lips and large glowing eyes that could memorize the Simurgh out of existence. 

Lisa then proceeded to choke on her own spit, and spat out, "Uh, here, shower, left cold, right warm. Clothes! Goodbye," then stumbled her way past the goddess in mortal body and closed the bathroom door. Lisa clutched her hand to her heart, and found it beating a thousand per minute as she listened. She finally got up off the floor and to her room when she heard the shower start. It was only when she finally grabbed the clothes when she realized she didn't know her mystery girl's name. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, yeah. you can grab the ideas as they come by. i'm not gonna be able to use them to their full potential by a long shot.


	2. The Terminator

There was something about Hebert that Sophia just couldn't place. 

Maybe it was the way she walked. Her feet seemed to thump across the ground like heavy weights. She carried herself like she was on the lookout, constantly watching, always listening. Sophia would sometimes look over her shoulder to spot Hebert's eyes on her, and then look away just as quick. If Sophia were any lesser, she would've shuddered at the thought of the polestick's eyes glaring straight through her. Luckily for her, she was used to stuff passing through her.

Maybe it was the way she was endlessly silent. She never spoke aloud unless it was to talk to her friend Barnes or to the teachers. Anyone that attempted to approach the tall girl was met with silence and a placid, bored look draped across her face. Barnes, of course, was usually by her side to talk for her. Anyone that knew anything about those two knew that with the way Hebert's eyes stared, it was no use trying to bed the redhead.

She placed it now, Sophia thinks. It was Hebert's eyes. Oh, sure, they were hidden by her bottle coke sized glasses, almost comically oversized, but that didn't stop Sophia from noticing how her dark green eyes would flare a brief red. It was because of that red that Sophia had broken into her locker in the middle of the night in costume. 

~~~

A black shadow the size of a teenage girl is kind of obvious in broad daylight. At night, where masses of shadow were common alongside bullet holes and gangs, she wouldn't go detected. 

As herself, the Stalker, she wore a terrible silver hockey mask and a heavy cloak. It was easy to cut and sew holes and pockets into it to hold various weapons, almost all of which featured a blade of sort. As she walked, her trusty crossbow thumped softly against her thigh. Her hood was up, which made it even more unlikely for anyone to see her face. She walked the halls silently, and idly Sophia wondered why she was doing this. 

Like everyone else here, except (maybe) Sophia, Hebert was easily a nobody. Sure, her friend was gorgeous in all the right places, and she herself wasn't lacking in muscle, but this was Brockton Bay. Unless you were a cape, you weren't gonna get anywhere in life. Which is why, after seeing that red glare just one too many times for it to be a coincidence, the Stalker has decided to pay a visit. 

She didn't think Hebert would be stupid enough to leave anything she cared about in a shithole like Winslow. Then again, with all the wannabe gangsters that begged for a life amongst the supposed "elite?" Hebert wouldn't guess it was her. Not with her skin color, and not with her physique. 

Maybe the spray can in her hand was a bit too much. After all, red painted letters screaming "E88" was always shit luck. Sophia would know. 

Not the Stalker. No, the Stalker wouldn't give a rat's ass about the tall girl that never spoke.

Carefully, with the slightest application of her power, the Stalker's hand bled through the locker as though it were water. Her fingers were the only thing to reconstitute behind the door, and she opened it with the same sort of glee as robbing muggers. It was fun, exciting, and Sophia didn't care that this was a crime, she felt _good_ as the Stalker. She could do whatever she wanted. It didn't matter anyway.

The door opened slowly. It was like Red Sea, parting by her hand. It was, however, more rewarding than even slaying an Endbringer.

Sophia's eyes widened. Wow. She knew that Hebert was something else, but this... this was terrifyingly arousing. 

Sophia took pictures of the weapons. There was a sawed-off, a glock, and Sophia was pretty sure that stocky rifle had to be tinker tech. She put her phone back in her pocket and was about to close the locker when she saw it. Deep in the mess of weapons that Sophia was pretty sure could hold back an army, there was a simple crossbow. It was larger than her single handed hunting crossbow, and much more modded than what was seemingly necessary. Attached to its side was a baggie holding one, two... Sophia counted up to thirty. 

Against the knives and the one pair of knuckle dusters she had found, this was something she found strange. Why a crossbow? If Hebert was a tinker, why would she need something like this if she had the blocky rifle, or the shotgun? And how could she even get these weapons inside the school in the first place? Sure, the metal detectors outside the doors were busted, but the rent-a-cops had to have seen something. Maybe she took these in at night, like how the Stalker was doing right now. But why here, of all places?

Sophia was so deep in her thoughts that she didn't register the heavy footfalls behind her. She did, however, register the strong hand that grasped her by the neck. 

Almost immediately, she was lifted off her feet in an almost gentle handheld. Sophia clawed at the hand, taking out a small pocket knife and aiming for the veins beneath the wrist. She slashed, and was sure she missed as the hand still held her tight. Sophia didn't catch the large spurts of warm red that trailed her opponents arm. Sophia felt a small rush of air as her hood fell to expose her tied up hair, and she failed to catch her breath as her back met the wall harshly.

She almost didn't register her attacker's voice. "You know, for someone called "Shadow Stalker", you really aren't the best at stalking, are you?"

Sophia gave pause in her struggle. "Hebert?" The hand let go, and Sophia dropped to the ground. A quick look up, and lo and behold, there was Hebert. For some reason, she was dressed in long jeans, a tight fitting leather jacket, and sunglasses. Her face would be normal, if it weren't for the scratches that betrayed an almost chrome like skull. The area around her hidden eye also revealed metal bolts and the odd red tint beneath. Sophia pulled in a breath. "The hell happen to you?"

"Put down a steel mutt." A glance at Hebert's other hand revealed more metal. Her skin looked shredded, and the cold metal beneath was skeletal in design. The sleeve was torn too, but didn't reveal much of the metal and steel past the elbow. Hebert leaned down, reaching for her glasses. Her face bare, Sophia held her breath as the red glare was turned on her, an unblinking camera that focused on her maskless face. Wait, maskless?

She tried to reach for her face, but Hebert was clearly far faster than her, and her skeletal metal hand was like a vice on her wrist. "Hey Hess. You'll keep quiet about this, right?" Sophia nodded. Hebert smiled, the juxtaposition from her red eye and normal eye forcing Sophia to look at her forehead. "Good." Hebert let go of her wrist, stood up, and turned back towards her locker to grab the rifle. She shut it with an echoing bang. 

Sophia stood up, grabbed her mask from off the floor, and watched as the thing called Taylor stalked away and out of the school. 


	3. The Cicada

Taylor wasn't sure when was the last time her wrists didn't hurt. She thought back to the day Emma- that _monster_, stuffed her in that thing called a locker. No, it wasn't then. She remembers them hurting that morning during her run. Earlier? What about her mom? 

Yeah, there we go. It was after the incident, when her father decided to find comfort in a bottle than his own daughter. She couldn't blame him. She remembers the weeks after, when all she was left was a pen, some paper, and an old rusty pocket knife. 

Taylor wasn't sure when her wrists started to hurt after that.

~~~

Taylor closed the door to her house as silently as possible, then walked off in the general direction of the Boardwalk. It was easy, barely an inconvenience today. The streets today had taken on fog, and with there being less people than general, it left Taylor with a profound feeling of silence and loneliness. It was just like any other day, she presumed. 

Idly, she rubbed her wrists as she walked. They always acted up when there was fog, or rain, or any type of moisture in the air. She wagered maybe that was why her body seemed to be pulled into the cafe. Once in line, she pulled out her headphones to listen to the music on the ipod in her pocket. It was such an old thing, and compared to the phones the people around her carried, it may as well be a dinosaur. Taylor didn't really care. It distracted from the pain and any other social interaction that wasn't immediately necessary. It got the job done. 

She was at the register finally. Across from her, a blonde girl with a wide smile and bright blue eyes. "Hi, welcome to Applebee's, would you like the apples or the bees?" Taylor raised a brow, and her head turned to make sure that she didn't accidentally walk into the wrong establishment. The girl behind the counter laughed into her hand. "Heh, I'm sorry. You looked sad, I thought you could use a laugh." Taylor shifted in place, a small smile showing up despite the way her muscles seemed to lock in place. A voice from behind her broke Taylor from her stupor. "Hey, girlie! Order something already!"

Taylor cleared her throat. "Um, sorry. Could I have a chamomile tea, to go?" The blonde typed what was needed into the register, and Taylor was about to scan her card when a resounding _BOOM_ brought them to their knees. Taylor and the girl hung on to the counter to keep from falling, though plenty of others weren't as lucky. "What the hell was that?!" One of them had shouted, but Taylor wasn't sure who. Her ears were ringing, and she could feel warmth trail down one of them. She rubbed at her arms, a dangerous heat building beneath her skin and overwhelming her senses. 

She heard a muffled shout of "GET DOWN!" before another _BOOM_ ripped away the roof of the cafe, carrying some patrons alongside it in an inferno. Taylor found herself flying into a window when she more felt than heard her back _split_. A cruel warmth surrounded her, building against hardness that built in her arms and _split_ through old wounds that she had long forgotten. Her bones _cracked_ and _twisted_ and _burned_, and Taylor felt her world turn red before the pain brought her precious unconsciousness. 

~~~

When her consciousness was brought back to the front of her brain, Taylor was on her knees. Someone's arms were around her, tight and unyielding. Her vision was blurry, and she tried to raise one of her arms when her stomach lurched. 

Vomit and bile made its way out of her mouth, the taste of copper evident.

After that was over, Taylor forced her eyes closed and ignored the numbness in her body. She counted, like how Dr. Quo had taught her.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5. In. 

1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Out. 

1, 2, 3, 4, 5. In. 

1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Out. 

She repeated it until she felt soft yet strong hands grasp her back and knees. She almost felt like vomiting again when the wind began to pick up around her, and the world turned weightless. Idly, while in the bridal carry, she felt in the back of her mind a gentle pressure. It built and built alongside calmness and fascination. Adoration, respect, _love_... Taylor felt the growl in her throat and let it run its course, it's tone animalistic in nature. Taylor thought nothing of it, nor did she think of the sudden drop that barely lasted seconds. She just kept her eyes closed and counted until she fell asleep. 

~~~

The next time Taylor opened her eyes, she found herself back in another hospital bed. The difference was that a tall Armsmaster and an irate looking Miss Militia stared down at her. 

Huh. She could see. When did anyone have the time to find her glasses? She tried to raise her hand to touch her face, and was met with resistance. A glance down revealed large bandages covered the majority of her arms. It didn't help her mental health when she caught sight of the chains at her wrists that bound her to the bed. 

"What is your name?" Asked Armsmaster. Taylor's words left her mouth before she could think. "Aren't you the tinker? You probably know my name already."

"That may be correct, but we wish to know if _you_ know your name." Miss Militia rubbed her eyes. Was she tired? Taylor thought the living armory didn't need sleep. 

Her arms itched. 

"Taylor Hebert," she said, her eyes focusing on how heavily bandaged her arms were. Did something happen after the pain? Was it that thing? A bomb? Was she going to lose them? Armsmaster seemed to read her mind. 

"Your arms are fine Miss Hebert. We need to ask you more questions now." 

Where were they anyway? This didn't look like any hospital Taylor had been to, and she had been to plenty in far too little time. Miss Militia asked the first. "Where were you on Saturday at 2pm?" 

2pm? Where was Taylor? She was... "I was at a cafe. Then, there was an explosion, I-I think." Why couldn't she remember? It was only... wait. Saturday? What was today? "How long have I been asleep?" Her mouth betrayed her confusion. 

"You've been unconscious for three days. We would've brought Panacea in, but your body seems to be reacting with her power in ways that we don't-"

"What my college is trying to ask, Taylor, is how long have you been a parahuman?"

Parahuman? Taylor, a cape? "That's news to me."

Miss MIlitia and Armsmaster shared a look. Taylor grew more and more worried. Her arms were growing warmer under her bandages, and she was beginning to struggle against the chains. "Why would you think that? I've been battling an ongoing bullying campaign for the last two years, I think I would notice if I had powers!" Her mind was blowing up right now. Little things in her vision. MIlitia's green haze transformed and warped across a number of different weaponry before settling on a rather large handgun. She could hear the servos in Armsmaster's suit turn and whirr. Taylor could taste blood in her mouth. 

"Taylor, please, we need you to remain calm."

"I am calm. I'm cool as a cucumber," Taylor lied. She couldn't think, she couldn't breathe, she couldn't-

Taylor moved. Her arms burst the chains in a frenzy of chitin and blood. As the bandages fell, Taylor witness the fruits of her labor as chitin shells grew in layers across her skin, crimson liquid coalescing into veins across the blackening carapace. Her fingertips ended in disturbingly shredded talons, dreadfully sharp and long. Taylor fell to the ground with her eyes closed and her breath still, hoping beyond hope this was a nightmare that she might wake up from. 

Taylor opened her eyes to find herself on the wrong ends of her hero's respected weapons. Tears fell from her eyes when she finally asked the dreaded question; "What did I do?"

The heroes shared a look, and Armsmaster's next words dared to stop her heart. "You killed Lung."


	4. The Case 53

**...think. **

...think some more. 

Flying, smelling, tasting. Something small, something sweet, something grasping and pulling and stretching-

A hand. Hands now. Hands begin to crawl as arms form. 

_Form..._

A torso next. Legs now, long and unruly. Skittering and climbing and latching. Chirps and buzzes fill the senses. Bees and wasps. Spiders and roaches and butterflies too. 

A head now. Head, head, head...

It has no mouth, but cicadas scream anyway. 

\---

They sit. Hours pass. Can it be called sitting? It's legs drift in waves, and parts of it's arms and head float in the alleyway. They recognize the stench of trash and maggots. 

More details force themselves through its body. Skin? 

...no skin. 

Fingers curls around metal and brick, centipedes and caterpillars dying and consumed at the force extruded. 

The thing wishes to feel. A thousand eyes instead see. Multivision, somewhat. The sight of metal, trash and garbage attract the more plentiful... "creatures." The thing let's it's mind take hold of them, subjugating them under control of it.

Spiders crawl across its surface. _Their,_ surface? 

...doesn't matter. 

The insects and arachnids and bugs all chitter at the same time, similar to its scream. "H-how...?" "How" was the right question. It didn't know why, but it felt like it. Human beings didn't do this. They didn't force thousands of bugs together into some sort of lackluster form. 

Was it even human anymore? 

There was no name coming to mind. No face, no skin tone, height, voice, gender, it didn't even know what's favorite fucking color was!

The bees and wasps surged violently around it's "head", forming a stinging crown of thorns before it finally stands. 

A crown... did that make it a queen? They certainly have never heard of any "king" bee, or "king" ant. 

...Queen it was. 

Queen gathered itself together again, this time letting the spiders weave webs across it's arms and legs like a crude mockery of human skin. It (or perhaps she?) let its flies loose outside the alleyway. People were non-existent. Have they spotted the being, and ran away in fear of being consumed by the swarm?

...Swarm sounded good too. Any name was, really. 

"She" directed the spiders toward "her" fingers. She ignored the way the ground shook and instead paid close attention. The flies soon merged back into it's- _her_\- back. With her many eyes and perspectives, she eyed how quickly the spiders worked. She enjoyed how their black bodies moved so deftly, so easily... could she have legs like that, large and agile?

...that bumping was getting louder. Or rather, she could feel it in the bugs. In her spiders and arachnids, she could feel the world move in her "bones." She let them weave her "skin" and ventured out of the alley. More bugs crawled from the trash that lined the walls, roaches and ants joining the living hive. 

Wow, it- _she_\- was killing it with the names. 

Her "body," though new, moved accordingly. In her collective consciousness, she searched through herself. Thigh webbing leafed and bulged with bugs moving like muscle, though she had no legs. Fingers and gloves were done, though no real shoulders. 

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

Bugs coalesced on their- _her_\- back. Surprisingly, the heat felt from the large thing was more than strong enough to kill away some her mass. 

Flying ants and ticks and flies died against the licking flame. The "multivision" didn't help either. Some eyes were simply overpowered by the glare while others too weak to process the thing. 

Queen, Swarm, Hive, whatever she called herself, knew that it wasn't human. Could it have been like her, some sort of sapient, floating brain, lost in a void of flame instead of legs and chitin?

Maybe, though it's words said something else to her learning mind. "HOO ARR OUU?" 

"Who are you?" She wasn't too sure she translated that correctly. Maybe the thing said, "How are too," or "hey me you." She doubted it, and let her inner workings chirp in response. 

"Ddddoooonnnt... nooooooo." Wow, she sucked at this. Maybe getting bugs to vibrate enough to mimic human vocal patterns was more difficult than she thought. 

She had no problem experiencing the sudden mass killing of her body through shear power. A lance, she thinks, pierced her torso, and began to set itself off in sparks that killed a hundred at a time. Her body screamed at the pain, and Queen/Hive/Swarm found herself lost again.

\---

Hands? No hands.

Head? No head.

Wings? A thousand of them.

Legs? A million of them. 

Consciousness gathered itself once more, and... Queen? settled itself- _herself_\- once more. 

Hands? Enough material for one. No spiders. She's in charge of... roaches?

Roaches. Good enough. 

Queen walks beyond her singular spot. No lights. Doesn't matter. Roaches can see more than people, and she's not a person. She's not sure if she was ever a person. Suddenly the lights flicker on, and something static is heard. A speaker? It says, "Do you know who you are?"

"...nooooo..." Her talking trick seems to have worsen. Roaches, as it turns out, are not gifted in human speech. The static speaker talks again. "We've found your core insect, as we called it, and have gathered what was necessary for you to regain sentience. Do you know where you are?" It seems to have understood her anyway. 

"...nooooo..." she felt as sad as that sounded. There has to be some other bug around, something like...

Dust mites are gathered against cloth and metal. Armor? There's glass on one side of her... cell? Cage? She's not sure. 

The figure the dust mites are gathered on move, and some of them pick up what they say. It's parroted by the speaker in the room. "You're on the Rig. My name is Armsmaster. Do you have any other way of communicating?" She may have found one. Dust mites, hundreds to thousands, gather behind the figure, now named Armsmaster, and settle against the wall. The roaches, what she has, make a pointing motion like a hand. She feels Armsmaster turn at her message, and stifles a disturbing roach chuckle when he jumps. 

On the wall, the dust mites gather to tell Armsmaster, "I like Skitter."


	5. The Rider

The idea that Taylor could be anything but human was preposterous to the young girl. Tall and gangly? Maybe. Intelligent and mostly blind? Obviously. Host to a terrifying flaming skull?

That one was surely new. 

Of course, the skull wasn't all bad. It only really showed up whenever Taylor ended up looking at a reflective surface. Her father was always wondering while she was frowning with such disdain at her clean dish when they ate. During school hours, it was restless inside Taylor. Any wannabe gang bangers that walked by her always got a chill that ran down their spines like coarse fingers, then a harsh sweat as though they were stuck inside a furnace. 

Taylor's body forcefully twitched as the skull wanted out. Though its word was scarce, usually coming up as grunts whenever Taylor looked in a window, it outright growls at the sight of actual gang members. Those drug dealers that often hid in the shadows just away from private eyes were suddenly like beacons of pure sin against Taylor's eyes. 

So on a day like any other, where Taylor was hiding in a bathroom and summarily soaked in juice and smoothie mix, it was horribly vexing when the skull appeared next to her reflection instead of as her own face. Taylor's breath hitched, and she spied behind her to find no one waiting. A look back at the mirror found the skull stalking back and forth along the length of the bathroom. Taylor sighed and prepared her ears for one on one speech with the inhuman thing. "Let me guess; you're angry at something."

The skull paused from its stalking for a moment to glare at Taylor's reflection, and shook its head as it continued walking. Taylor raised a brow. "What, you're mad at me?"

Fire bloomed from the openings in its skull. It finally stopped stalking to finally point at Taylor and then at the door through the reflection. Its unspoken words were clear to Taylor, who had now frowned. "You want to go after the Trio? Why?"

"**Guilty.**"

Its first words in probably a few weeks were grating against Taylor's ears, like the combination of a screams that coalesced themselves into deep speech. If it were actually capable of being in the same space as Taylor, she was sure she could feel its voice deep in her chest. Instead, she rubbed her temples to soothe her growing headache. 

She eventually left the bathroom as the skull dissipated in the background, but quickly grew worried for herself when her hands began to heat up. 

"**Guilty.**"

The word came again, this time a whisper against her ears. Taylor whipped herself around, but no one stood behind her. Sweat ran down her brow, and her clothes had started to become drenched. 

"**Guilty.**"

The word sent Taylor to her knees and her hands to her ears. "Shut up..." She groaned weakly to the air. 

The sounds of sizzling and the gross smell of burning hair reached her senses, and Taylor fought to keep her lunch from coming up as blisters began to appear on her skin. They formed and grew and began to smoke from nothing, as though she were burning alive. 

_Burning... the skull!_ She needed help, Taylor knew. But if the skull was coming out now, that help wouldn't last very long. She needed to get back into the bathroom, soak herself in water. That'll work. It had to. If this thing got what it wanted in the forms of the Trio, Taylor may as well kiss goodbye her life. 

** _Guilty._ **

It was permeating in her head now. Echoing and refusing to leave. Red encompassed her vision as pain suddenly wracked her body. Taylor gasped for air as her lungs began to fail, and her skin started to fall in ashes from her bones. As her body refused to listen and continued to burn against the ground, the sprinklers suddenly came on. Her clothes once again became drenched, but against her skin Taylor knew it was doing nothing. She grasped at her skull in a vain attempt to keep the flaming one out. Her fingers found nothing but more skin and hair to scrape off. 

Taylor couldn't help but scream. Her body, despite the water, kept smoking and burning. Slowly she began to stand, her face quite literally melting off her skull and becoming more ash that built on the ground. Students were beginning to leave their classrooms, her mind finally noted. Her vision became dark until suddenly, there was nothing but hellfire and sin.

\---

Phones came up as the figure stood against the lockers. Cameras took pictures and videos of the flaming cape that had suddenly appeared and no doubt caused the sprinklers to go off. Some were cheering it on as slowly it stumbled on its two feet. More however were egging it on, with some throwing random trash at its feet with their vulgar and insulting tones. 

Those with actual survival instinct took their phones out to call police, the PRT, their parents. Anyone and everyone that had the power to get them as far away from the flaming figure as they could. 

As the figure finally stood, and some people finally backed away, they could see clearly their face. Or, more realistically, their lack of one. 

Resting on a long and thin spinal column was a skull. The lower jaw was open slightly, as though it were trying to breathe through non-existent lungs. Empty eye sockets held nothing but a small dot of flame against it's blackened skeleture, and its forehead and temples were inscribed with clear ritualistic runes. A single crack, just above where its brow should be, was all that gave the flaming thing a character. Students stopped laughing and instead stared dumbly at it. Of course it was an it. No person just walked around with their skull exposed and on fire, that was insane. 

But here it was, stubbornly standing chock still while the sprinkler system slowly stopped its spray. Then it roared. 

Everyone covered their ears, but it wasn't enough as they still heard the cacophony of screams that was the thing's voice in their chests. The sound stopped as its jaw slammed shut, and it started to stalked menacingly through the halls. The stiffening crowd parted as it did so, though everyone's breathing stopped when a voice heard beyond the halls called out. 

"Unknown parahuman!" He called out, for it was surely a male. Everyone who wasn't yet staring looked at the flaming skull, who's gaze had slowly rotated to the window. 

"You are currently being asked to step outside! This is the PRT! No matter what your powers may be, we have facilities that may be able to help you control them! Please do not resist, or we may be forced to send in the Protectorate. You have one minute to cooperate."

No one could really tell what it was that made the figure huff in a amalgamation of flame and screaming voices, but it happened. More flame poured from its non-existent neck and hands, and it started to stalk just a little faster towards the exit. There was no real urgency felt by any of the students, but more of an underlying feeling of excitement. 

Someone sobbed, breaking the silence, and the rest took that as the cue to starting crying, screaming, and running for the next exit.

\---

Compared to the idiots that stayed and watched, Sophia thought herself pretty smart to immediately call the Protectorate about the flaming cape that had appeared from nowhere. 

She didn't care much for fire, it couldn't touch her anyway. But the thing was inhuman completely. No skin visible, and a burning skull decorated with demonic looking runes? It was the obvious choice to watch from afar and call for back-up. She would never admit herself afraid, not even in the privacy of her own mind, but everything about that visual was unnerving and disgusting. 

So she cemented her apparent "bravery" while cradling her twin crossbows alongside Halbeard and Sheephead, waiting for the disturbing cape to walk out behind the screaming children that filled Winslow High's halls. The customary minute was half over, Stalker knew, and she was more than itching to stick a sharp something into a soft something. 

If I can even find it, she thought. The thing's burnt out clothes, from what she could see before she found a hole to call the PRT, were hanging loosely from its person. A bit like a skeleton, her mind supplied. Either way, it might give her and excuse to use her batons. They were well taken care of, heavy, and had more than a few notches from her own personal takedowns. 

The PRT had taken care of as many as they could to the side of her, and Armsmaster gave the lead guy a nod before he took out the megaphone. "Your time has passed! We're coming in with permission to cap-"

The megaphone suddenly burst into flames in his hands. The man yelped and jumped in a combination of pain and fear before a couple armored folk were able to shoot out the flames with containment foam. A familiar sound of bursting embers called Stalker's attention to the front entrance again. Armsmaster held out his halberd a bit like a spear, and Triumph began to breathe deeply next to him. 

The skull had arrived. Wearing what looked to be shaggy pants and a multicolored hoodie with sleeves that kept falling beyond its hands, it would've been a hilarious sight if it weren't for the lack of skin or the obvious glare of hatred that promised pain. Its skeletal hand was held out towards the man that caught on fire and slowly lowered at Armsmaster's voice.

"Do you seek to cause harm?" Honestly, Sophia fought the urge to facepalm. In her mind she shouted, "Of course it does! It lit that guy on fire!" But instead she lifted her crossbows and aimed right for the flaming fucker's eyes. Her own eyes widened when she found its jaw set and its flaming eyes staring back at her. 

"Do you need any immediate medical attention? We can have Panacea here in minutes if you do?" The flaming skull was walking, slowly, towards them now. No, towards _her_ now. Armsmaster's halberd raised a little higher as the thing moved. "Please, slow down. We don't have to fight." The flaming fucker was outright stalking closer to her now, and Sophia smashed apart the side of her brain screaming for her to run. She was a predator, for fuck's sake. She didn't run from anything that wouldn't immediately kill her, and even then, only when she got some pain in herself. 

But it wasn't slowing down. It was in a near run, and it was closer closingtooclosetooclose-

Armsmaster tried to push her out of the way but the thing somehow rushed through his arm. Stalker moved to her breaker form but found herself forced out of it as its skeletal hand grasped far too tightly around her neck. Triumph was shouting at it now, but his attacks did nothing. Sophia couldn't even feel it stumble at the force. Then it spoke. 

"**Guilty.**" The word seemingly kick-started something in her mind, and Sophia began to struggle against the thing's grip. She kicked, she punched, she screamed at the flames in its palm licking hungrily at her charring flesh. The smell of something like steak filled her nose before her lungs refused to take in more precious air. 

"**Sophia Hess, guilty of sin. Feel the pain of what you've wrought. Look into my eyes.**" It spoke, and with an almost disappointing gaze, she obeyed. 

There it was. Fire and brimstone and the pain of needles. Countless bullets that ripped through her skin, her bones cracked and strained, her muscles torn, her insides turned to mush. Her mind broke in a endless scream, and Sophia Hess fell to the ground in a heap, not even blinking as her eyes burned in her skull.

\---

Armsmaster spun his halberd and activated its traqualizer as his ward fell. It was severely untested and against anyone other than Lung maybe, it would stop the heart of any brute with a rating under five. He hoped that was the case when it successfully triggered inside the bastard's upper arm. The figure's head turned to look at him, as if saying, "Really?" before yanking away it's shoulder and aiming a punch at Colin's jaw. 

Colin managed to turn with the punch at the last second, but the smarting bone left his slash with the halberd wide open. The skull-faced killer dodged easily and dove down in a tackle. Armsmaster found himself moving backwards and straight into a PRT armored vehicle that left his lungs crushed beneath his ribs. A cough and the taste of copper told Colin that his ribs were likely broken and his lungs punctured, alongside the glaring red warnings on his display. 

Pain left him paralyzed and on his knees. The skeleton bastard was walking away towards the street when Triumph again blasted at it. The displaced wind only left the flame billowing when it turned. It jumped forward far too quickly for its thin size, aiming its fist into the sonic hero's stomach. Triumph doubled over, but was able to follow with a right hook into the thing's jaw. 

A successful dislocation occurred alongside a wonderful sounding crack to Colin's ears. More PRT responders circled the hero and the skeleton when the flaming bastard straightened its jaw back into place. A hand raised and it wagged its finger before breathing fire at the troopers. Triumph ended up dodging backwards, the pants of his costume just barely catching flame. The troopers weren't as lucky, and their canisters of containment foam burst under the intense heat. Con-foam filled the school's parking lot, and the figure huffed in flame. 

Colin saw it all happen in less than a few minutes. In that small amount of time, the flaming skull had incapacitated two veteran heroes, did heaven knows what to a ward, and successfully evaded capture by no less than twenty PRT troops. 

The figure walked beyond the armor vehicle that it left Colin struggling to breathe in, and the telltale sound of a loud motor engine running made the veteran hero's eyes go wide. Oh no, his thoughts raced. Armsmaster fought with his suit and pushed his struggling body to look beyond the van, where tires began to skid and the smell of burnt rubber hit his nose. The lot was empty behind the van. 

Colin didn't feel the loss register until he looked at his visor, where the vehicle he arrived in was deemed destroyed. 

_The asshole stole my bike._ Armsmaster let out a long breathe before he collapsed against his halberd. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not many crossovers with the Spirit of Vengeance over here, at least none that i can see. and considering the bull that is Worm, i think what happens here may be justified. stay safe folks.


	6. The Bat

It was subtle, the way the world seemed to change before her eyes. At first, they were shadows. They were always in the corner of her eye, watching. Listening. Knowing. 

Judging. She wasn’t sure why. She was nothing, always had been, always will be. 

It wasn’t until a stumble down the stairs and a kick to the ribs that they came in earnest. 

Their forms weren’t solid. They weren’t standing on two legs, nor did they move her with two hands, or watch over her with two eyes. They were knowing, wise, and seemingly tailored to follow under a tyrant. 

A tyrant. Is that how they saw her? Was she so invaluable, so powerful, so ancient and knowing that her enemies seeked to drag her down to their level? To break her, to maim her? To prevent her from affecting what was known to them as a kingdom, as godhood? 

Compared to them, what was she? Compared to these… bats, who was she?

They were cunning. Privy to every last one of her secrets. Her guilt. Her feelings towards her emotionally absent father. Her heart. The knowledge of her being the last human being her mother had been in contact with. Her soul. Her empathy. Her… (love.)

They were strong. Corded muscle built around a tall figure, lithe and athletic. Her arms. Her ribs. Her lunch, her books, her flute. Her… (hands.)

They were hidden. Shadows that danced in her peripheral. Always watching. Always knowing. Always judging. 

Always laughing. 

Something had broken in her. She wasn’t sure when, and she wasn’t sure how. Her eyes would spot them quickly now. Narrow down their figures, whether they be two feet from breaking her heart all over again, or across the street. Waiting. She knew their limbs. 

Hess, lithe. Strong. Dexterous. 

Barnes, long. Reaching. Clawed. 

Clements, short. Uninviting. Calculated. 

She knew their hotspots too. She could easily calculate, based on the time of day, her location, and her classrooms relative closeness to the cafeteria. She’d know when they’d pop around a corner, say “Let’s have a chat,” and there’d be no chatting at all. Just barbed words and the painful pop of her limbs after they were done. 

The… bats. They listened. They watched. She knew they did. Always did they appear when she couldn’t find her strength. She would have no will, and they dragged her back to her bed, invisible to everything but her. 

Material would gather in their bodies, and suddenly more came to Taylor than simple knowledge of her worst enemies location, or the most damaging limb to strike in defense. 

The first thing she crafted in her hands was a mask. It would effectively hide her face from any and all surveillance footage. It give keep anyone who stared far too long at her face a splitting headache, or worse, hemorrhaging. 

Taylor improved it. She didn’t need something that killed people’s will. 

Then came the gloves. They were intricate in their craftsmanship, even the uninitiated Taylor could tell. Subtle built into the knuckles were pieces of steel, set to become electrified the moment she made a fist and buried it into a mugger’s stomach. 

She kept that. As stupid as it felt to lash out at someone and have them fall immediately, it would be useful. 

They still laughed. She still hadn’t fought back. 

The bats didn’t come as quickly anymore. Her mask no longer pained eyes and broke minds. Instead, it was fearful. Scary. Terrifying. It was easier to deal with the murderer’s of the night when they shat their pants screaming at the devil, the monster, the beast with no shape. 

It was easier to keep them down when Taylor looked like a bat. 

The frame took time. Multi-purposed to absorb kinetic force throughout her body, and redirect it in any way she chose. She chose to drop from three stories onto a group of drug dealers and send them flying into walls and garbage. Her knees held an ache for weeks after that. 

It wasn’t until an attack had come on the school that she’d made plans for a concealable glider. A master, supposedly a child of Heartbreaker, had manipulated multiple teachers and students into carrying guns and placing them against their own heads. Shadow Stalker had through herself through the building, her shadow state seemingly having nothing of her body left except a skull and outstretched membrane. 

Not unlike a bat. Taylor forced herself to watch, not act, as Stalker seemed to glide into Cherish’s body. She hadn’t stuck around for the aftermath of such an attack. The bats wouldn’t let her. 

She had added to her mask, as she added the glider to her… “costume.” It was now pointed, to mimic that of a creature so painful, it seemed to direct its evolution to become more terrifying. Her new glider hadn’t held up very well. The borders were too stiff, and the wing-span too short. Flexible, that’s what it needed. It needed to be flexible. 

The idea of having some sort of symbol was… needlessly difficult. It wasn’t that some scary creature wasn’t too hard to find, no. It was the right creature. Something easily recognizable, something that was impossible to not know the second you see it. 

Then she was reminded of the bats. How they seemed to personify terror. And with a silly thought, as she crafted her new weapons and affixed her armor against her body, she said, “It’s time my enemies shared my dread.”

They were… boomerangs, to put it simply. Sharp, dull, large, small, they came in many sizes. She knew exactly where to put them, exactly where to aim to disarm, to peirce, to immobilize, ensnare, _terrify_. It wasn’t difficult. The bats told her where. 

She was not yet one of them. She had her weapons, her… “batarangs”. Her spears and her knuckles, her mind and her sight. She had flashbangs, smokes, plastique, thermite, tasers, unseen knives that hurt her mind to comprehend. She had her mask, her fearful cowl that masked her fear and projected it onto criminals, onto the superstitious and cowardly. 

They were still shadows, but she was no longer afraid of the dark. The bats were hers to command, hers to control. Hers to rule. She was the tyrant of the shade, and these putrid _bitches_ were nowhere near who she was now. 

She knew exactly where they would come from. From her left, right out of Gladly’s classroom, there stood Sophia and Madison. From her right, there was Emma, an ugly grin smeared over her face as she seemed to drag five other girls behind her, like they were her dogs, and in her hand a chain leash. 

Taylor wasn’t afraid. The bats were not afraid. They were horror. They were terror incarnate. 

They whispered. They talked. They leered, insulted, pushed. They were cunning. They were knowing, watching, judging.

_Laughing. _

And Emma said, “What are you gonna do? Cry for a week like when your mother died?”

And Taylor lowered her eyes unto her banished sister-by-love. She stared with all the intensity she held while beneath her cowl, bloodying her knuckles against the E88, or the ABB, or the Merchants. 

Emma seemed to shrink. She seemed to be… terrified. 

Taylor was terror. She was horror incarnate. She was a tyrant of the shade, she was pain remade.

And she would not go quietly into the night. 

First, she threw her backpack behind her, it’s contents splattering all over Sophia in a cloud of glue, pencil shavings, and the barest traces of her interpretation of tear gas. Madison was caught in it too, and she went down like a sack of potatoes. She didn’t bother looking at Sophia as she did it. Taylor looked deep into Emma’s wide, terrified eyes, and didn’t look away for a second as she broke her arm and nose. 

Arms grabbed at her shoulders, and Taylor threw her head back. She felt a nose seemingly crumple, and the silent squeals, the silent cheers of the bats surrounded her as suddenly, she found Hess’ face becoming nothing but a bare skull, and outstretched arms. Taylor ducked, and, feeling lucky, pulled on her gloves from her combat boots, and thrusted into the shadowy mass that made up Shadow Stalker. The screams were unheard as Sophia coalesced back into solid shape, and Taylor held nothing back. She smashed her hands, her face, her skull, her chest. She made sure every bone, every limb, every _cell_ of her nemesis’ body ached, cried, and broke. 

The bats stopped cheering as Sophia came to resemble a massive swelling pustule than a human being. Taylor stopped punching, her gloves having come off at some point, her hands aching in a minute pain. Taylor rose from her straddling of Hess, ignored the screams of the girls behind her, plowing through Gladly’s body as she ran home to grab her things. 

The bats followed. They always followed. 

Taylor put on her cowl, her cape, her frame, her boots, her armor. She equipped her gloves again, her knives and batarangs and grenades and tasers. She hid for hours across the Docks, the beaches, the Graveyard. 

Day turned to night. She could handle night. 

Taylor was to be a bat. Taylor must be better than this. She has to be more than a hero. She has to become legend. To become myth. A boogie-man. She was to be a bat. The Bat needed to become more than ash off Lung, more than a broken shard of Kaiser, more than a cape with a need to beat on nazis and dragons and druggies and the broken. 

She needed to be a silent guardian. She will be a watchful protector. She must become a... dark knight. 

And from there, the Bat growled, to the superstitious’ terror and the cowardly’s horror. 

“I am vengeance.” A swing from a rooftop. A cry for help. A girl, backed into the trash by nazis. 

“I am the night.” The nazis heard the swish of her cape, the growl of her demonic voice, the fear lurking behind them. The Nazis looked up to find the Bat, glaring down to not only terrify, not only to horrify, but to protect the people of Brockton Bay. Taylor, the Bat, raised her arms to mimic that of a bat’s wings. 

“I am Batman!” And she dove. 


	7. The Niece

So, apparently, back talking to a superhero is grounds for imprisonment. 

Maybe. I have no real clue how or why, but it happened. Or maybe it was because I decided, "Eh sure. I'll become a supervillain's minion if it means I can get extra school credit."

Man oh man, what kind of world do we live in where supervillainy is an actual job? Then again, this is Earth Bet. I wonder if Earth Aleph ever has to deal with stuff like this...

The interrogation room was a lot like what you'd see in a crime show or movie. Kinda big yet small, dark, white, with a big ominous mirror that's sat on a wall. But this room also has several hundred dollars’ worth of tinkertech security cameras, nozzles on the ceiling that might just douse me in containment foam, and these giant metal handcuffs that I'm pretty sure are meant to hold actual Brutes. 

The doors opened cleanly, and in walked Miss Militia, Panacea, and Brandish. Huh. My family has never really been big on New Wave. Mom had never really liked Carol Dallon as a person, even if she did respect her as a superhero. Most of the time. 

Miss Militia and Brandish sat down right across from me while Panacea stayed sitting with a bare hand on my neck. I got the implied threat immediately; Any sudden moves and your body goes bye-bye. 

"Miss Taylor Hebert, correct?" Miss Militia asked as she set down a rather thin looking folder. Brandish moved her head in a way that made me think she was rolling her eyes, and suddenly I was wondering if I'd ever leave prison. Or even get there. 

I just nodded, but Panacea's suddenly chilly fingers reminded me to cooperate, or mega-cancer. "Yes, I am."

Miss Militia nodded and pulled out a sheet from the manilla folder. "I see. You've been having a rough time in school, Taylor?" ...okay, I wasn't expecting this. I nodded while voicing confirmation, and she continued. 

"At least thirty accused assaults in the last month, as well as the systematic psychological breakdown that eventually accumulated into..." Miss Militia's brow went up, and when Brandish leaned over to see the sheet, she hissed and looked away in shaking anger. 

I had a feeling I knew exactly what they were talking about. Miss Militia looked up at Panacea, who shook her head. I kept still, still unsure of what this might accomplish. 

"Miss Hebert," Brandish said. "You're here because we suspect that you may or may not have come under the influence of a human Master."

...I was not expecting that. But I was expecting not to expect something, so that didn't count. I wasn't as surprised as I probably should've been. A girl with grades good enough to get into Arcadia several times over suddenly has a terrible GPA, has unheard complaints of bullying, and disappears from school before turning up again as a supervillain's lone minion?

Yeah, I guess I would contemplate mind control too. I couldn't help but sigh a little in relief. "Oh, thank goodness. I thought you might make me disappear or something."

Miss Militia blinked, and Brandish seemed to stiffen in response. They both spoke at the same time. 

"We're not about to perform something unsavory-"

"Do you think this is a joke?!"

Panacea and I both flinched at the conflicting tones. Brandish saw it as a cue to continue. "You may or may not have been subject to psychological abuse of the most disturbing case of neglect I've seen and have just been accused of being Mastered, and your first response is to joke about it!?"

Spittle went flying, but I blinked it away from my eyes before answering honestly. "Well, Mrs. Brandish, if I can call you that," I distinctly heard a "no you can't" but ignored it, "If I were being Mastered into serving under Lustrum and handcuffing a bank full of people, I'd call it the highlight of the week."

Brandish seemed ready to go on a tangent about the youth of today before Miss Militia interrupted. "And you feel nothing? No disgust, fear, a sense of helplessness or feelings of violation?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "Eh. I've been trampled, smacked, pushed down stairs, been called a whore, been called too ugly to even use as a cumrag, stuffed into a locker full of what might've been bioterrorism, which might be a war crime, had my personal property stolen, both my hands, a leg, and my nose broken, twice, and have been told by someone I considered my sister that my dead father killed himself because he couldn't stand having me as a daughter. Miss Militia, Brandish," I turned my head to gesture to the miracle cape. "Panacea. I've been through a lot of utter shit. I'm still alive. If I were Mastered, I would jump for joy, because then at least something would come out of it."

Clearly, that was the wrong thing to say. Miss Militia's eyes were closed as she rubbed her temples. Brandish had removed her helmet and started to turn a very deep shade of red, and Panacea had taken her hand off my neck to rub her own. 

Suddenly, Brandish stood up in a fury. "That Piggot bitch! I told her she shouldn’t have taken that psychopath in! Pins gangbangers to walls? Perfect for the wards, my ass! And now this!?"

"It is a nice ass," I muttered. From the way it sounded, Panacea began to shuffle awkwardly. Brandish's redness sort of changed from "absolutely raging" to "confused confusion." Or it might’ve been more rage. Miss Militia looked up from her mini-headache and simply gestured to Panacea. The miracle cape caught on and grabbed her mother by the wrist, the only exposed skin on her mother's person aside from her face. "C'mon, mom. Let them sort it out."

Brandish, or I guess Carol now, began to mutter incoherently as she was led outside by her daughter. Panacea made another weird gesture with her hand to Miss Militia as she left, and then the door shut.

Heh. I was sitting alone in an interrogation room with a hot superheroine. Now either comes the beatdown, the emotional release, or the gratuitous sex scene. 

God, I hope it's the sex scene. I'm really not in the mood for another broken nose or crying again. 

Miss Militia sighed as she got up, walking over to my side, and sitting up on the table before taking out a key and removing the admittedly huge handcuffs. I rubbed away the soreness, and she began to talk. "I admit, that was not how I was hoping that would go."

"Me admitting that I've been bullied for three years, or..."

"Yes." She deadpanned. Heh. Miss Militia made a funny. She continued. "We already have the suspects in custody. Emma Barnes and Sophia Hess?" She seemed to sigh in disappointment, saying Sophia's name. I nodded.

"Good. Now I'll go ahead and be the first to tell you; if anyone ever asks about your trigger event, it's okay for you to shut them down. You're under no obligation to talk about it. Say no, tell them it's private, that you don't feel comfortable. It's during times like these-" What was she talking about? I cut her off with a hand. "I'm sorry, what? Do you, hmphh-" I tried to stifle it, but I couldn't help chuckling. "Do you think I'm a cape?"

She raised a brow. "Yes? Your trigger event, I assume it was the locker two years back."

Hah! "Hah! Hell no! Trust me, I looked up however the fuck you crazy peeps got superpowers, and I have nothing for the sort! I checked." I deadpanned that last part, and it seemed to unnerve her. I could see little goosebumps pop up on her exposed neck. 

"Well, no doubt you caught on to Panacea's signals?" I nodded then added, "Not very stealthy."

Her eyes crinkled in what I think was a smile. Or she was constipated. Granted, she wore the American flag as a scarf/ face mask thingy, so it might be both. "It wasn't meant to be. Not only was Panacea here to keep things civil between you, I, and Brandish, but she was meant to scan your brain for a corona pollentia and corona gemma, to see if it matched up with our own scans."

"Scans? When did you take those?" I think I would've remembered going through an MRI... "We have our ways, Miss Hebert." She was definitely smiling now.

"To put it simply, it only confirmed our own suspicions, Taylor. You're a parahuman, no doubt."

I blinked. Then I giggled. The giggling turned into full blown laughter in less than a minute, and for the next minute, I struggled for breath trying to contain the enormous balls that Miss Militia had. 

Telling an upstart minion for an insanely feminine feminist that she had superpowers due to toxic waste exposure? There's no way it couldn't be a joke.

Once I had wiped away the tears, I finally met Miss Militia's eyes. 

She refused to meet mine.

Oh. No. "No fucking way..." She seemed to startle at the curse, but I ignored any word she might’ve spoken with puRE FUCKING RAGE!

"COME FUCKING ON!! YOU'RE TELLING I'VE HAD SUPERPOWER FOR TWO YEARS AND I'VE NEVER USED THEM ONCE TO SLAP A BITCH!?! LIKE HELL!!"

Miss Militia pulled herself into a standing position, and I caught a flicker of green on her waist. Her iconic shapeshifting weapon was shifting through transformations, ranging from a curved sword to a comically large hand cannon. 

Eventually, she found her voice. Or rather, a convenient topic to move onto. "Because of your apparent newfound parahumanism, we're required to tell your parents or guardian-" Mom? Liv!? "And offer you a position in the Wards."

...w-wards? "You? W-want me? In the Wards?" I don't even have superpowers! I'm not a cape!

Miss Militia shrugged. "Well, you'll need to spend the time required of the judge in juvie, as well as sign countless NDA's-"

"Wait wait wait. Juvie?!" Since when?! And why!?

She nodded. "Well, you did admit to willingly joining up to rob a bank. Since you haven't been Mastered..." Miss Militia shrugged. My shoulders sagged. I'm going to prison...

"Don't worry." I looked up. Miss Militia had moved back to her seat on the other side of the table. "You're only going to juvie for a short time before coming back here. You'll be under probation, of course, and you'd need to cut any potential ties with Lustrum and her gang, but you'll be fine. I know it."

Right. Cool, cool cool cool. Cool. 

How the fuck do I explain that Lustrum- or rather, Liv- is my aunt?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (i don't know if it's pollentia with two L's, or just one.)
> 
> stay safe folks.


	8. The Outsider

Taylor had taken up the habit of going for a late night walk whenever the day proves to be too much. She’s not too sure why. It might be because she was suicidal, considering the crazy rates of kidnapping and disappearance of young women in Brockton Bay. She might be an adrenaline junkie, and she got a rush every time she looked at an alleyway. 

Or she might be flat out insane. Yeah, that one might be true. Voices do that to a person. 

Believe it or not, the voices were not a new thing. She had long since discerned that those voices weren’t in her head, but in everyone else's. She’s not entirely sure if this fact is correct, but it’s better than the alternative. 

What would happen if she told anyone? Taylor often wondered that. And who would she tell? If she told Emma, she’d call her insane. Then Taylor would have to prove it by looking past the the broken shell that her ex-best friend often put up and make her cry, and then she’d start crying because of the feedback loop on emotions, then Hess would call her out as a parahuman, maybe even a Master, and then she’d be put to death because everyone is afraid of Masters.

People like the Fallen and Heartbreaker put a bad name on Masters. Taylor wasn’t entirely sure she was a Master, but it made sense. Seeing as she could literally read minds, see hidden things, and move stuff without touching them, it was the most apt description. 

Would she be the first true psychic on Earth Bet? Or was that already taken by the Simurgh? She looked up some closer-to-home parahumans to see if she could find anyone like her. All she got was something on a cape thief called Tattletale, and that she often claimed to be psychic herself. 

Taylor wasn’t about to go looking for her. She was an actual cape, someone who decided to get things done, laws or not. Taylor was just taking a midnight walk. Insomnia does that to a person. 

And sometimes it does other things. The harsh screaming of a woman in an alleyway echoed through unheard channels, unheard save for by Taylor. The constant whispering in her mind, the “ohmygods” and “fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck” often got hard to listen to after a while. Of course, that was made worse by whoever the perpetrator of such a crime might be. While she could certainly hear, and sometimes feel, people’s suffering in those dark, endless alleyways, she could hear the… fervent lusts. The burning rage. The pathetic apathy. 

The disgusting enjoyment. The infernal patience of mad men and women. 

So she decided to, on her midnight walks, quiet them down. Taylor wasn’t a fighter. She wasn’t even a lover. No, she was more of a mumbler, or reader. Not even a mediator. And, most of the time, since her childhood, she’d been a listener. 

And it just so happened that she was the daughter of reactors. So, she asked herself a simple question as Moira Hess, a middle aged woman who had two teens, a dead-beat of a husband, and a year-old baby, was being mugged by three E88rs in a dirty alleyway, being watched by a parahuman on the rooftops that had yet to recognize the identity of her own mother. 

_ Should she interfere? _

The fact that Sophia had yet to jump off her building, despite being in clear earshot of her mother about to be stabbed, shot, beaten, raped, by a gang of rapists because she couldn’t see her face was a big deciding factor. 

Taylor pulled up her hood and tightened her hoodie strings together. She wouldn’t need her sight for this. 

With a simple psychic shout, one that held the joint package of unease at a hidden stranger, and the attention grabbing charisma of a cult leader, she was immediately spotted. Taylor knew she didn’t make for a particularly flattering sight. She was five foot ten, gangly, dressed in sweatpants, some sandals she found lying around, and a hoodie over a random t-shirt that she grabbed off the floor of her room to sleep in. 

But, in the minds of the gangbangers, Shadow Stalker, and Mrs. Hess, she might as well have been Scion him-glowy-golden-self. 

One of the E88r’s pulled out his knife; a switchblade that a cursory psychic scan told Taylor that it had never been used on another human being. “Hey, what's you doing over here?” He asked, in what might’ve been the absolute weakest, most pathetic Brooklyn/New York accent Taylor had ever heard. Another psychic scan revealed that he was born in Mexico. Which held a whole other can of worms that she wasn’t touching. What she was about to touch, however, was that little part of the brain that stood for agreement, commitment, and memory. 

And, just because she could, Taylor raised her hand in a small wave, and said, “You don’t need to hurt this woman.” And, again, because no one would ever know, she made them repeat it. Well, the E88r’s. Mrs. Hess simply looked at her with something that resembled a crude mash of awe and fear. 

“We don’t need to hurt this woman,” The gangbangers said in perfect monotone sync. Taylor smiled under her hood, and continued her little play. “You’re going to forget any of us were ever here.”

“We’re going to forget any of us were ever here,” The men said. They had a glazed look in their eyes, something that reminded Taylor of the stoners and junkies in Winslow. “You’re going to drop everything valuable on the ground.”

They repeated it, and proceeded to put everything valuable they had on the ground. Taylor felt Shadow Stalker wince slightly at the dropped phones, though she felt the bully’s excitement at the knives and guns they had. 

“Now,” this was the big one, Taylor knew. If she made this stick, she could call herself a Master. Not that she wanted to take control of the entirety of Winslow and force Emma through a terrifying mirage of her own torture… but it would provide a sense of closure if she could. 

“You’re all going to go home, and rethink your lives. Do something that doesn’t involve hurting people because of their race, or religion.”

The men sort of wavered, and Taylor panicked for the smallest moment as she thought, “Oh shit, they’re so racist I broke them.”

Then they said, “We’re going to go home and rethink our lives. Something that doesn’t hurt people because of race or religion.”

Taylor smiled beneath her hood. It worked! Or, well, it worked now. But she could work with this. Maybe not permanently turn Hookwolf into a puppy, or make Lung a good person, but a king without a kingdom is no king at all. It also helped that when the gangbanger began to walk away, Shadow Stalker’s jaw dropped. 

That was satisfying in it’s own way. 

Taylor was nearly about to walk away when Sophia’s mother called out. “Wait!” Taylor already knew what she was about to say, seeing that the question was at the absolute forefront of her mind, but she turned around dramatically anyway. At least, she made it look dramatic to Shadow Stalker and her mother. At least Sophia recognized her own mother’s voice when it wasn’t crying out for help.

Sophia looked down on Taylor from her rooftop, and Taylor thought, why not have a little more fun?

She’d let Moira ask her question first. “W-who are you?” The woman was near forty, dear god. Her hair was slightly greying, though through her clothes, Taylor could easily recognize that she was indeed Sophia’s mother. 

With the slight ogling out of the way, she pulled off her hood. Neither of them would remember her face anyway, though she made sure to give Sophia a heaping feeling of deja vu come tomorrow. And maybe a bit of guilt and thankfulness. Don’t blame Taylor, she was the one taking a walk in the middle of the night. 

Taylor wondered what she might look like to Mrs. Hess. Was she a cheerleader? Perhaps someone she knew when she was younger? Was her face a horrible mishmash of every living being she had ever seen in her life?

It didn’t matter. She’d never remember her anyway except as what Taylor let her. 

“I’m just a friendly outsider,” Taylor tiredly said. It was terribly late, after all. “You’re gonna want to get home now. Brockton Bay has never been safe for anybody up this late.”

Moira nodded, and suddenly she acted like Taylor wasn’t ever there. Shadow Stalker, however, could still see her. Even if it wasn’t as Taylor, it was as a new cape. A benevolent Master that had saved her mother’s life. 

Taylor pulled as much influence she had from Sophia’s mind as she could once the bully started moving to watch her mother. She could handle Madison’s mind, she was a bit of a coward, and she’d seen the inside of Emma’s mind for a lifetime. But Sophia’s? It was poisonous to be in there for too long. 

And so, as soon as Moira and her cape daughter disappeared behind the block, Taylor pulled up her hood, entirely unseen and forgotten utterly by every living thing that could think.

Unbeknownst to Taylor, something moved in between her psychic mind as well. Something, or rather someone, unseen totally by anything lacking the two’s similar gifts. 

Someone shining. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i watched Dr Sleep recently, and with Ewan McGregor there, using the Shining (spooky force powers), I just couldn't get scared at all. Then I thought of going through Stephen King's sizable library of books he had written, and came up with this little number. 
> 
> stay safe, folks.


End file.
